


where do we go?

by AMidnightDreary



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asgardian Tony Stark, Choking, Dark, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Feels, M/M, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Past Mind Control, Past Violence, Protective Tony Stark, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23818684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMidnightDreary/pseuds/AMidnightDreary
Summary: Anthony comes every day.It's the only way Loki knows that days still exist.
Relationships: Loki/Tony Stark
Comments: 65
Kudos: 457





	where do we go?

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this entire thing on Billie Eilish.

They are cutting his nails. He isn't sure why, and he doesn't care, not really. The reason doesn't matter. He doesn't want them to cut his nails, but his head feels so heavy and his limbs are so numb. His fingers are tingling; they twitch in the hold of a pair of warm hands with a touch so gentle that it burns. 

He wants to push them away. He wants to run. He wants to bare his teeth and snarl. He does not want them to cut his nails. He needs them; he doesn't have any other weapons left. Are they going to take his teeth, too?

Somebody took his teeth once. The pain is only a faint memory, what he clearly remembers is the grin - thin, pale lips twisted into something cruel, the tip of a tongue between grey teeth. Concentration. One tooth for every time he talked without permission.

His chest hurts. It's too tight to breathe. He presses back against the wall as well as he can, tries to get away from the hands that will not stop touching him. There's a distant sound he might have made himself, but he isn't sure. He can never be sure. 

“Shh, it's alright. We're almost there.”

The voice is distant, too. It makes him cringe, it makes his insides twist and his skin ripple. He doesn't know much. He doesn't remember much. But this is one of the voices he knows too well, one of the voices that won't leave him alone, no matter how loudly he screams at them to leave.

His throat is dry. He isn't sure if he even knows how to scream anymore.

 _Clip._ Another nail. What will they do with them? The others made him swallow one of his teeth, back then. A canine. He didn't even choke on it. 

“See, there we go. That's it, we're done.”

They let go of his hands, and he immediately cradles them against his chest. He draws up his knees, too. Everything feels slow, sluggish, it all takes so much more effort than it should. He is quicker than this, usually. Quick and lethal.

“Come on, Loki. Let's get you to bed.”

A hand on his shoulder, and he flinches so hard that he hits his head against the wall. The voice curses, then apologizes, and says that name again. Many times. He doesn't react, and eventually the person leaves. Their voice stays behind.

Loki.

Is that his name?

-

Later, when the sedative wears off, he buries his nails in the flesh of his wrists again. They are short now and dull, not nearly sharp enough to draw blood. He still tries to get below the bandages, below the shackles, tries to get them off. His nails leave red half moons in his white underarms.

-

The voice is back. In person. He - he knows his visitor is a man, now. On some days he even remembers the man's name, but he doesn't remember anything today. 

“You've got to stop tearing these off,” the man tells him, his voice quiet. Gentle. He is holding his wrists again. New bandages. “You're still all bloody underneath.”

Yes. He can smell it, almost taste it. But maybe he just bit the inside of his cheek again.

“I know you don't like the shackles. I don't like them, either. But your seidr -” A pause. Long, too long. Then, “It's safer this way.”

Safer. He doesn't know what safety feels like. He doesn't even know what the word is supposed to mean. It fills him with unease.

“You're quiet today. What are you thinking about?”

What is he thinking about?

He is thinking about blood. The taste filled his mouth, he spat it out, he stood up again, chest heaving. Somebody mocked him. _Safety._ It can't be a real word.

“Lies,” he says. His voice is raspy, barely even there. He hates the way it sounds. “Words.”

“Mh, that does sound like you, yeah.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

He doesn't know what to make of that. He frees his hands from the man's grip and turns away from him. He lies down on the bed, facing the white wall, his hands pressed to his chest.

“Don't tear them off again,” the man says, almost pleads, and then he leaves.

-

“He talked to me today.”

“Really? What did he say?”

“Not much. But he talked. And not just - I mean, he’s always talking, but today he - he gave me an answer. That's progress, right? Isn't that a good sign?”

Silence.

-

Anthony. That is the man's name.

Sometimes when Anthony enters the room, he is smiling. Sometimes he isn't. Today he is, and it is a small, barely visible thing. 

“Your hair is a mess,” he says.

Yes. He's been tearing at it again. It comes off almost as easily as the bandages. 

“I don't have a brush in here,” he snaps. His arms are wrapped around his middle, holding onto himself. His throat hurts.

Anthony blinks. “I'll bring one tomorrow.”

Anthony comes to him every day.

It's the only way he knows that days still exist.

-

His skin turns blue sometimes. Every time it does, he watches it happen, and it fills him with such dread that the room starts to flicker and fade. The ground opens up and swallows him whole. He tears off the bandages again just to see that his blood is still red.

He told them that he couldn't turn, that he didn't know how. They told him that they would make him turn, and they did. They threw him into ice and kept him there, and it didn't take long until his skin shifted and turned cold and blue. The one with the cruel grin buried the tip of his knife in one of the raised lines and traced it all the way up to his shoulder, splitting it open.

He told them that he couldn't turn back, that he didn't know how. They told him that they would make him turn back, and they did. They came with fire and burning coals, and it was even worse than the ice. 

He refused to kneel for them, he remembers that now. He also remembers that they made him walk on the coals until his legs gave way beneath him.

It left burn wounds on the soles of his feet, and on his knees and shins. He traces the scars with his fingertips and wishes he had a knife.

-

He stands in front of the bookshelf in his room. He liked reading. Maybe he still likes it. He reaches out to touch one of the books, to run his finger over the booktitle, but he freezes when his finger is just an inch away.

His hand is still blue.

-

As soon as the man approaches him with something in his hand - he doesn’t know what it is, he doesn’t care what it is -, he lashes out. He is still blue, and they haven’t yet found a way to control the ice. He himself doesn’t know how to do that, either. 

The man shouts something, but he isn’t fast enough; the ice is already at his feet and he stumbles back as he tries to get away, then he falls. 

He doesn’t even look at the man. He is looking at the door that is suddenly not just an entrance anymore but also an exit, and maybe it will be closed (it is always closed) but it is worth a try, and he stumbles forward, already reaching out for the handle.

The man grabs his ankle and pulls. He is saying something again and he refuses to let go, even though the blue skin burns his hand.

He is on top of the man before he is even aware that he is moving. His hand fit around the man’s throat as if they have been there before, and he watches the skin freeze and burn under his fingertips. The man grunts and wheezes and his eyes are impossibly wide and impossibly brown, and Loki is so shocked that he lets go of him.

The man doesn’t take any time to breathe, he immediately throws him off and pins him down, his hands are careful not to touch any skin again. He must be hurting.

“I’d hoped we were past stuff like this,” the man says. Rough voice. Wet eyes. “You can’t do this anymore, Loki. Please.”

He stares up at the man’s neck. Bruises in the form of fingers have already formed, frostbitten skin swelling and peeling. His own lips twist into a grin and then he laughs, almost tonelessly.

“You should kneel before me,” he reminds the man, and the man’s expression just makes him laugh more.

They told him he would be king. Both of them. They were both wrong, but he can’t say who was crueler.

The man climbs off him, but he doesn’t leave the room. He sits down leaning against the wall, coughing, and eventually he finds the thing he brought into the room and slides it over the floor to him.

“It’s a hairbrush,” he says. “Nothing more. I promised I’d get you one yesterday.”

He was here yesterday?

-

It was Anthony who found him in the dark. There was thunder in the distance, but it was Anthony who found him.

-

He brushes his hair. It’s so messy and tangled that the brush doesn’t get through it properly. He tries until his scalp burns, and he hates it all so much that his hands are trembling.

Anthony sees it. He disappears again, but not much later he returns and sits down on the bed next to him. 

“It’s about time for a haircut, don’t you think?”

He stares at the scissors in Anthony’s hands. He wants them, but he knows that Anthony won’t give them to him. He will guard them with his life.

“Fine,” he says, and Anthony smiles.

He sits down on the floor. Anthony’s hands in his hair are careful. He listens to the _clip clip_ of the scissors, watches the black strands fall to the ground, discarded remains of weeks and weeks and weeks of - this.

They sedate him sometimes. He thinks about it, and now finds it odd that they didn’t sedate him now, too. Why not? Isn’t Anthony scared? The ice could return any second; it always comes without a warning. Anthony should be scared. The bruises on his neck are still there.

“I’m not scared of you,” Anthony says.

The line between what he thinks and what he says is very thin. He doesn’t like that. Ages ago it was a wall he couldn’t break through, he remembers all those words stuck on his tongue, tasting like ash.

“This isn’t your fault,” Anthony says. “You’ll get better. You’re already getting better.”

Silence, for a some time.

“See, this is much better.” A hand in his hair. “You always liked your hair a bit shorter. Said it gets in the way when it’s any longer.”

Lips on his temple.

“What do you think, Loki?”

Is that really his name?

Has he earned it yet?

-

He remembers the Void. It is the only thing he remembers sometimes. 

After falling, there was nothing. Nothing but darkness, disrupted by flashes of colour and blinking lights that might have been stars. He saw entire worlds passing him by. He saw so much and he didn’t want to see any of it, but closing his eyes didn’t help. It never does.)

They found him there. They plucked him from the emptiness and then they picked him apart until he broke. They were in his mind, dug up his core and set it on fire. They planted thoughts in his head that weren’t his own. His body healed, his body always does, but you can still see the cracks. You can still see the scars.

He remembers wanting to die. It is still the only thing he wants sometimes.

-

Anthony often tells him who he is. _Loki,_ he says, _your name is Loki. Do you remember?_

He isn’t sure.

_You are a Jotunn. You grew up here, in Asgard. Frigga is your mother. Thor is your brother. Do you remember? You are still a prince of Asgard. You are also the rightful king of Jötunheimr._

A king. He doesn’t want to hear that. Things never end well when somebody tells him he could be a king.

_I’m Anthony. We grew up together. I’m your friend. Do you remember?_

Sometimes he does.

-

“I want to take him out of the palace.”

“No.”

“I _will_ take him out of the palace. Just for a little bit, just to - to get some air. There isn’t even a window in his room, he hasn’t seen the sun in _months._ ”

“I cannot let him roam around Asgard. He is a danger to everyone, including himself.”

“I will stay with him the whole time. And I didn’t plan to take him to the market - norns, just leaving his room for once would be enough. Maybe Frigga’s gardens -”

“You have no right to call her by her name.”

“She gave it to me, my King.”

“You are getting insolent.”

“He is getting _better!_ Maybe if you visited him every once in a while, you would -”

“I see no reason to visit him.”

“You don’t even see a reason to keep him alive. If I hadn’t looked for him, he would still be with the Titan _._ If Thor and I hadn’t -”

“I said no, Howardson. Now go.”

Anthony turns on his heels and leaves. He will never bow to Odin Allfather again.

-

There is a woman in the room. She comes sometimes. She talks and she watches and she apologizes, and eventually she fades again.

He can never tell whether she is real or not.

He sees her in his nightmares. The nightmares come and go, just like sleep comes and goes - slowly, reluctantly, and without a warning. Like the ice. They leave him shaken and unable to move, they leave him crying and screaming. His throat is always so sore when he wakes up, his tongue feels so heavy. 

It doesn’t end.

He dreams about the first time he took a life, and he dreams about the last time he took a life. He took both of them with a dagger. The last time, the one with the cruel grin watched him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the body he was supposed to pick apart. He didn’t know the reason back then, and he doesn’t know it now. What they told him didn’t make any sense. Why would they need proof that he could kill for them? He knows how to kill. His father taught him to.

The dagger went through trembling flesh like it was nothing, like it didn’t even matter. And didn’t matter, not really. He didn’t care. The handle of the dagger was cold and hard, and his hand was still. He knew their preferred methods. One tooth for every time they spoke without permission. One fingernail for every unanswered question. The blood on his hands looked better than the colour blue.

The Titan dreams about the stones. One of the stones is in Midgard. _Midgard will be Loki’s._

He never set a foot on Midgard, in the end.

-

Anthony brings a chess board.

He takes one of the figures into his hand and examines it. It’s a pawn. The pieces are black and green instead of black and white.

“Do you remember the rules?”

He glances at Anthony. “Yes.”

“Do you want to play?”

“Yes.”

He takes the green pieces, and then he realizes that he doesn’t just know the rules, but that he is also very, very good at this. What an odd thought, to be good at something that isn’t killing.

“I demand a rematch,” Anthony says when the game is over.

“Yes,” Loki says. “But do not think I’ll let you win.”

Anthony looks so happy that he can barely stand to look at him.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Anthony says, and it sounds soft.

-

“I want to see him.”

“Uh. Do you remember what happened the last time you visited him? He almost killed you.”

“That was months ago. You keep saying that he is getting better.”

“And he is! He is. I just - what if he gets worse again?”

“Do you think I would make him worse?”

“I… I don’t know, Thor. We can try -”

“No. No, I do not want to make him worse. I just wish I could do something for him.”

“Oh. You know, there - there might be something.”

-

The sun is harsh and blinding. It nearly makes him stumble, but the hand on his back keeps him steady.

“Are you alright? Do you want to go back inside?”

Loki shakes his head, and so they make their way into the gardens of the Queen. Anthony told Loki that his brother helped them sneak out, but thinking about that gives Loki a headache.

The light is too much. It reminds him of fire and coals. Loki keeps his gaze lowered, concentrates on how it feels to be able to take more than seven steps in one direction, concentrates on the flowers. There are colours he hasn’t seen in ages.

He helped his mother in the garden when he was younger.

“You did,” Anthony says, and he takes Loki’s hand.

Loki sighs. He thought out loud again. He looks down at their hands and briefly wants to take his own away; he doesn’t like to be touched. But Anthony’s hand is very warm and gentle, and warm and gentle is something Loki craves.

“We hid here before,” he says.

“Hm?”

“We hid here before.”

“Oh. Yes, we did. Your mother helped us hide, every time we pulled a prank.”

Loki doesn’t want to think about his mother. The pranks are much easier to think about. He starts scratching his underarm, but Anthony carefully takes his hand away.

“Don’t make me bandage you again,” he says.

Loki recognizes it as a joke, even though he supposes that it holds some truth. He rolls his eyes, but lets Anthony pull him further down the path. They sit down on a bench, eventually, and Anthony talks. He always talks, often about things Loki doesn’t quite understands. He likes to listen, though.

Anthony often tells Loki that he loves him.

And, sometimes, Loki remembers.


End file.
